


not all those who wander are lost

by asthiathien



Series: renewed shall be blade that was broken [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Dwalin & Thorin Oakenshield Friendship, Fix-It of Sorts, Guilt, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Thorin Feels, Thorin Has Issues, Thorin Lives, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:23:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asthiathien/pseuds/asthiathien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And even those who are can be brought home.<br/>Sequel to <em>the crownless again shall be king</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not all those who wander are lost

Dwalin slammed his fist into the table, trembling with both fury and rage as he sank wearily into the chair, burying his face in his hands.

“No luck, then?” Dáin said with an equally-exhausted sigh across from him.

“Not a trace,” Dwalin nearly growled, squeezing his eyes tightly closed, but even in that darkness the despairing, empty look in Thorin’s eyes haunted him, his friend’s drawn features pale as death beneath the bright crown upon his brow.

Alive in body, but dead as surely as the silent bodies of Bilbo, Fíli, and Kíli deep beneath the mountain.

A hand came to rest upon Dwalin’s shoulder, and the warrior looked up to see Dáin standing beside him, balancing awkwardly with his prosthetic limb.

“You’re doing as much as you can,” Dáin said quietly. “You search for him day by day, follow him into his darkest moments for the friendship and brotherhood you hold for him. That is as much as anyone can do, cousin.”

“But it’s not enough,” Dwalin snarled, fiercely swiping at his eyes as tears threatened to overflow at the thought of his King, his _brother_ , alone in Erebor’s halls with naught but his own dark remembrances to keep him company.

“No,” Dáin said softly, bowing his head. “No. It’s not enough. Mahal, it never _will_ be enough. But.” The Lord of the Iron Hills leaned over and gripped Dwalin’s hands tightly in his. “But sometimes, Dwalin, sometimes he is _here_ , sometimes he manages to find his way to the great hall in time for meals and sometimes he walks with us, strong and unbowed as he always was, and you and I both know he could not accomplish that without us. If Thorin was left alone, without his Company, then we both know he would never have survived this long.”

Dwalin bowed his head, drawing in a painful breath, then another, before lifting his head and nodding firmly.

“Good,” Dáin said, and proceeded to almost fall flat on his face as he stumbled over the missing foot on his left side.

Dwalin was just helping his cousin back into the chair when Bofur, liberally coated in dust, flung the door open and stumped tiredly into the room, every line of his body drooping with weariness.

“Nothing?” Dwalin asked, already feeling his black mood beginning to creep back into his heart.

The normally-cheerful miner shook his head in a desolate gesture more suited to Dwalin as he all but collapsed into a nearby chair. “Not a trace. My people have scoured every inch of the lower levels and mines by this point. Bifur was just assembling some contraption to brace the more unstable tunnels when I left, even though I doubt Thorin would be comfortable venturing down there to begin with, let alone enter a clearly-unstable sector of the mines.”

Dwalin felt his shoulders slump yet further, exhaustion creeping back into his body despite all his attempts to dispel it.

“The others?”

“I spotted Dori organizing a search of the main levels, though by his face I would venture a guess that he’s already gone through them at least half a dozen times by now. Glóin and Gimli are assisting him, and I believe Nori is heading up a contingent of his previous contacts to look for traces of Thorin’s presence. Balin and Ori are still looking for any mentions of secret passages in the records.”

“Thank you, Bofur,” Dáin said as Dwalin turned away, gripping Keeper’s haft tight in one fist in futile preparation for battle.

“We will not find him,” Dwalin murmured darkly. “These halls are too great to find a lone dwarf who does not desire to be found.”

“Got any better ideas?” Dáin snapped, shoving himself back to his foot.

Dwalin roared uselessly with fury and slammed a fist into the unyielding emeraldine wall, bowing his head and letting his misery overcome him for a moment. After what felt hours, he drew in a steadying breath and straightened up once more, settling his shoulders back in unconscious imitation of Thorin’s battle stance.

“I’ll go have another look.”

“Where?” Bofur burst out in frustration before Dáin could say a word. “You said it yourself. Thorin’s not going to be found. What’s the point?”

Dwalin set his jaw grimly. “We keep searching. What more can we do?”

Bofur sighed and buried his head in his hands, looking suddenly desolate. “I. . . I don’t want to lose him. Not now. Not after everything.”

“We’re too late,” Dáin said darkly. “He’s already lost.”

Dwalin shook his head. “No. you do not know Thorin, not as I do. And believe me when I tell you that my _brother_ will not be truly lost.” Seeing the exhausted skepticism in their eyes, Dwalin scowled and continued, “He comes back, doesn’t he? He _always_ comes back, trusting that we’ll be here for him even if we don’t think he’ll ever return.”

And buried under that, beneath all the pain and brokenness of Thorin’s heart, the shadows now plain for all to see, there still lingered a trace of the old Thorin, the one who had dared face a dragon with barely a breath of a hope in his heart. The spirit of steel and flame that refused to give in and fought through what would have long ago broken anyone else for the sake of his people.

The Thorin who had created a stable colony out of an abandoned mining outpost was still buried there, still lingered deep within his heart despite everything that had happened in between. It was there in Thorin’s rulings and decrees, there in how Thorin constantly fought for his people above all else, there in how he challenged three council members simultaneously to a duel because they refused to look beyond their own self-interest.

Thorin might be bowed beneath the weight of his losses, might have been bent and beaten and forced into the ground by everything he had seen, but he was not broken.

“He’s still fighting, even now. He’s never stopped fighting.”

“For Kíli and Fíli and Bilbo,” Dáin whispered.

Dwalin froze in his tracks, a sudden thought striking him at the mention of the names of their lost kin, one that made far too much sense.

“Dwalin?” Dáin asked, half-rising from his chair despite his missing prosthetic. “What is it?”

Dwalin realized suddenly that his fists were clenched tightly around the hafts of Grasper and Keeper, his eyes glaring fiercely at the wall. With an effort, he managed to uncurl some of the tension in his muscles, forcing himself to relax.

“I think I know where Thorin is,” he said gruffly, and even the thought of his _brother_ wandering in the dark all alone would be enough to send him flying into a wild rage if the situation had been different.

“Where?” Dáin and Bofur demanded, the behatted miner looking as if he might try and fight Dwalin should the latter not be forthcoming and Dáin seeming equally determined.

“In the royal tombs.”

Dáin’s eyes widened in horror, undoubtedly remembering the nightmarish aftermath of Azanulbizar, where the dead lay in great piles upon the battlefield and all, once-mighty king and lowly smith, had been lit ablaze for their ashes to disappear upon the wind. Bofur let out a series of vicious, blistering curses and kicked at the solid oaken table, slamming his mattock into the chairs around it when kicking failed to produce a satisfying enough crash.

“Aye,” Dáin said hoarsely as Bofur slammed his fist into the wood. “He’ll be there, sure as death.”

“Why didn’t we think of it before?” Bofur demanded as he dropped back into his chair, voice wavering in a telltale sign of oncoming tears. “It’s been years, Dwalin. _Years_. Why did we never - ?”

“He never seemed like he could be visiting them, the way he so viciously blamed himself,” Dwalin pointed out, hiding how much the thought of Thorin’s vicious self-hatred made him try to fight back tears, because seeing his eldest brother, his strong, proud king, so broken felt as if something in the world had been torn irrevocably asunder.

And then, always, immediately after that thought came the driving desire to _do_ something, to find a way to fix it even if it might be impossible, because he was a dwarf of the Line of Durin, it was in his _blood_ to do the impossible.

And he knew, he _knew_ , that Thorin was still there, somewhere. Perhaps he was not always there, perhaps there were days the old Thorin disappeared, but he _was still there_.

And even if Thorin truly had been lost, Dwalin would not accept that until he knew it for a fact, and he owed it to Thorin to keep trying until his every option had been exhausted.

“Call the others back,” he ordered Bofur. “Get them assembled within the Great Hall.”

Bofur nodded and shoved himself to his feet, not bothering to stop and fix his lopsided hat as he ran to call back the searchers.

“I’m coming with you,” Dáin said, shoving himself to his foot and grimly starting to strap his iron prosthetic back to his leg.

“No,” Dwalin said, placing a heavy hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Stay here and wait for us. We can’t confront him with more than one person at once,” he reminded Dáin when the Lord of the Iron Hills looked ready to protest.

Dáin winced as he recalled that incident –Balin and Dáin had tried to speak with Thorin simultaneously, which had ended in their king completely panicking and attacking Balin when he had placed a hand on Thorin’s shoulder, thinking he was an enemy, and Dáin had had to physically block Thorin from injuring himself when he realized what he had done – but he held his ground. Dwalin made an irritated noise deep in his throat; honestly, Dáin and Thorin were far too similar for comfort. He was only glad he hadn’t been the one who had to parent those two stubborn fools.

(Dwalin studiously ignored the little voice in his head reminding him that _he_ had a fair bit in common with those “stubborn fools.”)

“Dáin,” Dwalin sighed, and he placed his other hand on his cousin’s other shoulder and drew him in close so their foreheads met. “I’ll protect him, cousin. I promise.”

“I know you will,” Dáin whispered back, his voice wavering and breaking, “but I. . . I’ve seen what’s happening to him, Dwalin, and I cannot bear to lose him. Not him too. Not after everything. . .”

Dwalin sighed, and he wished desperately for the peace to roar out his fear and anger and directionless rage, but now there was _no time_. “Aye,” he said softly. “Which is why we’ll be getting him _back_.”

Dáin took a few deep breaths, and when he pulled away the old fires had rekindled in his Durin-blue eyes. “Bring him home, Dwalin Fundinul,” he said, his back straight and proud and the strength of a king audible in his voice. “Bring him _home_.”

Dwalin grinned back as he settled his axes on his back with a shrug of his powerful shoulders. “Do you even have to ask?”

A flicker of a smile made Dáin’s lips quirk upwards. “Next time, _you'll_ have to stay behind while I go and fetch our stubborn, self-sacrificing king.”

“Then I have to keep there from _being_ a next time, don’t I?”

“How I only wish that could be so.”

“It will be,” Dwalin said, quiet and full of conviction. “Perhaps not this time, or the next, or the next, but eventually. Even if it takes a hundred years more, someday there will not be a next time. I _swear_ it.”

Dáin straightened, settling his weight into a combat stance. “Aye. So what are you still standing around here for?”

Dwalin smiled and spun sharply on his heel, marching determinedly into the darkened halls of Erebor. He had a brother and a king to find.

* * *

Dwalin slowly rounded the last corner leading to Bilbo’s tomb, unsurprised at the torchlight spilling out into the hallway from the half-open door. Thorin might be terribly traumatized and caught in a dark despair, but he would never go wandering into the dark passages of Erebor without a torch to light the way, no matter _how_ well he knew their ancient halls.

Dwalin carefully stepped into the room, his eyes immediately drawn to the dark figure of his brother seated at Bilbo’s side, his head bowed. The warrior shoved his torch into a nearby sconce and took several steps forward, noting with concern that Thorin gave no sign he had heard him.

“Thorin?” Dwalin said, and almost yanked Grasper and Keeper from their holsters as Thorin spun around, Orcrist fluidly unsheathed to aim at him as his king swiftly put himself in between him and Bilbo.

Dwalin made sure Thorin could see his hands at his sides as he took a cautious step forward. “Thorin, it’s me,” he said, keeping his tone calm and reassuring.

At the sound of his voice, Thorin blinked, his panic dissipating and then blue eyes widening in horror as he realized he was aiming Orcrist at his almost-brother.

“Are you alright?” Dwalin asked before Thorin could properly process the situation, hoping to head off the impending catastrophe.

Thorin’s lips parted in an exhalation of breath that might have been intended as a bitter laugh, gesturing at himself and shaking his head.

The meaning was obvious: _You would ask_ me _that, when I just nearly killed you?_

“How many times have I attacked _you_ during a flashback?” Dwalin asked pointedly, and Thorin’s eyes flicked down and away. “Many, as well you know. And you also know that you never have control of what you do in the midst of one.” When Thorin gave no sign of acknowledgement, Dwalin reached out to place his hands on Thorin’s shoulders, keeping his movements slow so as to give him ample time to evade if he should like. “It does not mean you are losing your mind, or that you are in danger of falling to the gold sickness. All it means is that you have had to deal with more trauma in a few months then many experience in their entire lives. All it means is that you are an ordinary mortal like the rest of us, who is plagued by nightmares and fears and flashbacks. That is _all_ , Thorin.”

Thorin shook his head helplessly, tremors running through his body and his eyes still fixed solidly on the stone floor. After a long moment, Dwalin sighed and started to lead Thorin towards the door.

“Come on. You haven’t eaten in three days and the others have been searching for you. They’ll be gratified to know you’re back.”

Behind him, Thorin suddenly stopped, his hand coiling around Dwalin’s wrist as if to try and pull him back. Dwalin turned, noting with concern the slight glaze to his brother’s eyes. “Thorin, what’s wrong?” he asked, gently cupping Thorin’s chin with his fingers and lifting the king’s head to meet his eyes.

Confusion filled Thorin’s blue eyes, and Dwalin sighed mentally. “Yes, it’s been three days,” he said with uncharacteristic gentleness.

And then stopped, because the look of utter _frustration_ in Thorin’s eyes was rather clear. Dwalin tilted his head in confusion, not comprehending, and then he understood. “Oh,” he said sheepishly. “I suppose we never _did_ actually tell you we were sending out search parties.”

Thorin rolled his eyes in disgust, but there was still visible doubt lurking in their sapphire depths.

“You don’t believe me.” It wasn’t a question, and Thorin immediately fixed him with a look that clearly stated, _would you?_

“Fair point,” Dwalin conceded, and then he flung an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Tell you what: you and I could go up to the Great Hall and you could see for yourself.”

Thorin sighed silently, his head bowed, and then he set his shoulders firmly and began walking determinedly towards the door. Dwalin swiftly leaned down to grab Orcrist and then followed, unable to wipe the foolish grin from his lips at the sight of Thorin walking up to the halls of Erebor without one of the Company or his close kin leading him up themselves.

_I told you_ , Dwalin thought as he followed his king through the halls of their city. _I told you that you still had the strength in you for this._

* * *

It was only when Thorin reached the doors of the Great Hall that Dwalin realized that yes, in fact, he _had_ called the entire group of searchers (which included nearly all of Erebor's population by this point and a sizeable chunk of Dale’s) to the Great Hall, and yes, this _was_ probably the largest group of people Thorin had seen at once since last Durin’s Day or so, and maybe this had been a bit of a bad idea.

But by the time he had had the thought to try and keep Thorin from entering the Hall, the dwarf king was already flinging open the doors and marching into the room like a commander entering the field of battle.

And then proceeded to stop completely in his tracks at the sight of the huge hall near full to bursting with dwarrow, from young dwarflings to elderly warriors, and over two hundred able-bodied men from Dale and Esgaroth, with the Company, Dáin, and Bard standing at the very front of the absolutely tremendous gathering.

Dwalin had to admit, it was rather daunting, but there was really no better way to properly impress upon Thorin the sheer scale and undertaking of their search teams.

Thorin swung around to give Dwalin a rather incredulous glare, and the warrior could practically hear Thorin saying, _When you said “search parties”, I imagined something a little more practical!_

“Adoration has never been practical, your Majesty,” Dwalin pointed out cheerfully, and Thorin proceeded to rear back in shock.

_**Adoration?**_ his entire stance practically screamed, disbelief written clearly in his face, and he gestured in the direction of the men of Dale with a look of extreme skepticism in his eyes.

“Your Majesty,” Bard said respectfully, “you did, in fact, lead an army to the defense of Dale when we were under attack and had been beset by an epidemic, not to mention _personally_ assisting caring for the sick, and even the legendary immunity of dwarves would not have been enough to protect you from such constant exposure.”

Thorin directed a disbelieving look at Bard and then shrugged dismissively, as if to say _I only did what any true king would do._

“Thorin,” Dáin interjected helpfully, “I have had _far_ too much experience in dealing with unpleasant rulers at diplomatic meetings, and believe me when I tell you not _one_ of them would have done what you did. And _certainly_ not for those who are not even members of their own people.”

“We,” Gimli said, the red-bearded young warrior standing tall and proud, “are here for _you_. We will always be here for you, your Majesty, for you have done more for all of us than we could ever hope to recount, and if we can repay that debt in any way we can, we will.”

“Aye,” the entire room rumbled, a powerful reverberation that echoed through the room until the very stones seemed to pledge fealty to Thorin II Oakenshield.

Thorin looked around the room, seeing the loyalty in their eyes, and he inclined his head in a universal gesture of thanks, and if any saw the tears glittering in his eyes then they were wise enough not to say anything.

“Thorin, are you well?” Balin asked, and Thorin took a cautious step forward only to almost fall, Dwalin swiftly lunging forward to catch him.

“Right, anyone who’s not a member of the Company, me, or King Bard, get out,” Dáin announced loudly. “Thorin needs some time to readjust, after all.”

Thorin nodded his thanks to Dáin as he carefully moved towards the nearby table, Dwalin providing constant support at his side. Bombur bustled off, undoubtedly to fetch whatever meal he had been preparing, as Ori and Óin helped Thorin into his chair and Dori followed Bombur to find some water or tea.

“You dropped this,” Dwalin said once Thorin was seated, depositing Orcrist on the table. Thorin nodded his thanks and propped his head on one hand, closing his eyes in exhaustion.

Bifur laid a hand upon Thorin’s where it rested upon the table, causing a ghost of a smile to flit briefly across Thorin’s face. Ori nudged Nori and the thief took a bundle out of his bag, unwrapping it to reveal a knitted blanket in brilliant Durin blue, the two brothers draping it around Thorin and revealing a series of Khuzdul runes cleverly worked into the design, the signs for _king, noble, wise, just, determined, mighty,_ and _worthy_.

Bombur and an assistant came bustling out, pushing two large trays laden with food, distributing the plates around the table, and Dwalin felt a sudden rush of gratitude that Bombur had thought not to single out Thorin but had instead made him a part of their entire company, just as it had been on the Quest.

And seeing the first spark of life in Thorin’s eyes that he had seen since the Battle, Dwalin finally felt as though Thorin might be coming home.

* * *

Dwalin let out a feral roar as he finished the last move, breathing heavily as he stepped back, reholstering his axes and wiping his face with a towel that hung at the edge of the training field.

A light tap on his shoulder made him turn, mouth already opening to tell the messenger to take it to Balin or Dáin unless it was something urgent, like Thorin having disappeared again –

– only to blink in surprise as he realized the other was Thorin himself.

“What do you need, laddie?” Dwalin asked, stretching out his back, somewhat surprised that Thorin would venture down to the training fields (“fields” was relative, given that they were still inside Erebor), since he had seemed understandably wary of combat in general ever since the Battle, though he had lost none of his skill.

Thorin looked rather worried, shifting nervously on his feet, before finally gesturing to the field, and when Dwalin glanced back at him uncomprehendingly, his jaw dropped at the realization that Thorin was wearing _sparring gear_.

“Are you sure about this, Thorin?” he asked softly.

Thorin’s hands were shaking with barely restrained panic, but his eyes were bright and determined, and he looked more like the old Thorin than he had since before the Quest.

“I’m proud of you, laddie,” Dwalin said, and he reached out to rest his head against Thorin’s before straightening up and gesturing to the fields.

Thorin was now shaking from the mere _thought_ of raising a weapon against his brother, even during a sparring match, but something of his stubbornness was back and he did not flinch when he drew Orcrist, nor when Dwalin leveled Grasper and Keeper at him.

At the first clash of steel on steel, Thorin let out a faint gasp, and Dwalin leaned forward in concern, only to almost lose his grasp on Keeper as Thorin twisted Orcrist around sharply.

That first day, they only lasted a few more blows before Thorin’s fear became overpowering, but he consistently showed up for the practice bouts every day thereafter, even when he was exhausted from nightmares and barely able to keep his feet.

The day Thorin managed to knock Dwalin’s axes from his hands and hold Orcrist to his throat without trying to flee or sending himself into a panic attack, a roar of utter triumph rang through the entire training area as the watchers cheered for him, and the king was almost knocked down as the entire Company, including Dáin, slammed into him in a single huge embrace.

(When Dwalin got back to his feet and slammed into the mess, they did in fact go down, but Thorin’s breathless look of happiness when he emerged from the mass of overly-delighted dwarrow was plenty enough to make it all worthwhile.)

* * *

Thorin sat upon the throne of Erebor, flanked on all sides by the Company, with Dáin standing right beside Dwalin at Thorin’s right hand whenever he visited Erebor, and Dwalin could feel the hum of triumph through the stone beneath his feet.

Thorin was not recovered, not yet. Still he did not trust himself around gold, and sometimes he would disappear wandering the halls of Erebor in quiet mourning and guilt, other times he would fling himself into his duties with a single-minded fervor as if to punish himself for actions all others had already forgiven him for.

But Dwalin had gotten him this far, gotten him to be able to fight a practice duel without fear he would injure those he loved (though that lingered in his nightmares), and eliminated Thorin’s days of endless wandering to only the occasional moment every few months instead of the near-constant disappearances. And if Thorin still had moments where his eyes were fixed upon some distant point upon the horizon, where he went quiet and still and lost himself in his own mind, Dwalin knew that, as long as they were there, Thorin would always find his way home.

No matter how long it took.


End file.
